


The Innovation of Friendship, and the Capacity for Non-Abstract Love

by AnonymousDandelion



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Affection Starvation, Angst and Feels, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Can Sense Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley wants a friend, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Hopeful Ending, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Loneliness, Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), Lonely Crowley (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Platonic Relationships, The Arrangement (Good Omens), but first there will be heartache, crowley and aziraphale are friends, it only takes them six millennia to figure it out, musings on the nature of love and friendship, platonic slow burn i guess?, there will be a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25824055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousDandelion/pseuds/AnonymousDandelion
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale through the ages as these two affection-starved idiots fall in platonic love/friendship, struggle to understand their feelings, and struggle even more with expressing those feelings to each other.Featuring six thousand years of loneliness, mutual pining, musings on the nature of friendship and love, and ultimately a happy/hopeful/hug ending.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 109
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Innovation and Capacity

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a bit of feelsy introspective drabble, then spun itself out into something significantly more, and eventually became a full-length story in its own right.
> 
> Fair warning: As indicated in the tags, this piece is rather heartachy and pining-central, and whilst our favorite ineffable duo will eventually come around to a happy ending, it's going to take a few millennia.
> 
> (If you're here exclusively for the hug and the softness, skip to chapter 5; it should make sufficient sense without having read the rest of the story.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, Crowley gave up on trying to understand friendship, and just accepted it as one of those odd human features that was both inherent to the design and absolutely incomprehensible. Like the philtrum.  
>  Whatever friendship was, it clearly involved some sort of strong mutual connection, caring, and trust. Some bond that was wholly and uniquely human in nature, in every way foreign to snakes or to demons.
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> Aziraphale loved love.  
>  In the abstract, naturally.  
>  Because while angels can, if they so choose (the vast majority do not), abstractly love a planet, or humankind in general, or even love itself… that is, according to every rulebook, the extent of the ethereal capacity for loving. Specific, targeted love is something that is wholly and uniquely human in nature. As such, angels do not delve beyond the abstract.

Friendship is a human innovation.

It is not a Heavenly practice, and it is most assuredly not a Hellish one. Demons and angels alike have colleagues. Angels have allies; demons have accomplices. Demons have enemies; angels have enemies too, although they prefer not to admit it (except when referring to their infernal counterparts).

Rivalry, collusion, liaisons… as in any office space, all these forms of political interpersonal relations, and more, can be found in both Heaven and Hell.

Neither angels nor demons, however, have _friends_.

~ ~ ~

The Serpent bore witness to many significant firsts in the world, and he remembered most of them. The first rebellion. The first light. The first life. The first sin. The first rain. The first birth. The first death (which was also the first murder). The first wheel. The first rainbow. The first smartphone.

Looking back, however, Crowley did not remember the first friendship. Later, he reflected that perhaps Adam and Eve had been friends, but at the time he had not noticed it among the other facets of their relationship. In any case, there was no single defining moment when Crowley suddenly became aware that the concept of friendship had been invented. It simply slipped into being, put down roots, grew, and spread, deceptively slow and subtle and surreptitious and _stubborn_ — and before Crowley knew what was happening, it was everywhere and there to stay. Like dandelions, only not quite as obnoxiously yellow.

He tried to understand it, because he had come early to the discovery that knowledge of human nature made it much, much easier to do the job to which he was assigned. Tempting, corrupting, troublemaking… to be effective, all of that was contingent on _understanding._ Understanding the things people did, understanding _why_ they did those things, understanding their innermost thoughts and desires and hopes and fears and the things they dreamed of and the things they cared about.

Friendship, as near as Crowley could make out, seemed to be the product of some complicated tangle of all of the above. It was of great importance to the humans who partook of it, whatever _it_ was — that much was obvious. The precise reason it was so important to them, however, the crucial detail that made it somehow worth their while, was far more elusive.

From what Crowley saw, friendships could cause worry and sadness and pain, which he knew were emotions that humans, in general, enjoyed no more than he did. When friendships ended, whether from death or disagreement, humans cried. When friendships lasted, humans engaged in irrational, inexplicable, and occasionally perilous behaviors.

People helped their friends, and their friends helped them. That part was self-evident and self-explanatory. They gave, and in turn they received. As far as that went, the concept was straightforward enough: friendship was a transaction. Crowley understood transactions.

But then, sometimes, humans in friendships behaved in ways that, in a transactional framework, just did not make sense. People spoke with friends, spent time with friends, did things with friends, did things _for_ friends, when Crowley could see no practical benefits at all for choosing to do so. They put themselves to inconvenience on behalf of their friends — sometimes significant inconvenience — when there was nothing to be gained from it. They needlessly risked themselves for the sake of a friendship. And while in some cases the debt was eventually paid in kind, in many other cases it never was… yet, only rarely did it happen that one party in a friendship complained about the unpaid debt, or demanded reimbursement. It was altogether bewildering, as senseless as an angel sheltering a demon under his wing.

And yet, despite all logic to the contrary — and this was the real kicker — humans _liked_ friendship, there was no question about that. They went so far as to seek it out. Humans without friendships wanted to have them, while humans with friendships strove to cultivate them, or even to grow more.

Eventually, Crowley gave up on trying to understand friendship, and just accepted it as one of those odd human features that was both inherent to the design and absolutely incomprehensible. Like the philtrum.

Whatever friendship was, it clearly involved some sort of strong mutual connection, caring, and trust. Some bond that was wholly and uniquely human in nature, in every way foreign to snakes or to demons.

Incomprehensible or otherwise, Crowley thought from time to time, friendship sounded rather pleasant.

But of course, Crowley was a demon, and demons and pleasantness don’t mix.

It’s unheard of.

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale’s favorite part of Earth was the love.

In fairness, the Principality was fond of Earth for many reasons. To start with, Earth was not Heaven, which on one subterranean level in his subconscious was already beginning to be a point in its favor. Then, too, the planet was so very green and blue and _gorgeous_ , covered with water and flora and fauna and oxygen and so much more. During Creation, some of the other angels had grumbled (very, very quietly, while making sure to maintain plausible deniability) about this whole new “world” concept, but Aziraphale had simply watched in joyous wonder and thought about the greatness of ineffability.

And, of course, there were the humans. They were charming, they were frightening, they were fascinating. So simple, yet so complex. So different, yet so similar. So creative, yet so predictable; so repetitive, yet so _un_ predictable. So weak, yet so strong. So _loving_.

He’d sensed that love ever since the Beginning, in those very first people — love for each other, love for the Garden, love for the first fetus, in Eve’s womb — and even before he knew what it was, he’d known it was beautiful and that he wanted to protect it. Perhaps it was the thought of that love being extinguished that the angel of the Eastern Gate hadn’t been able to bear, when he gave away a flaming sword. If his sword had helped to preserve humans and their lovingness, then Aziraphale couldn’t quite bring himself to regret his spur-of-the-moment decision, no matter the consequences.

Oh, humans hated, and they feared, and they grieved, and they got angry. They experienced the full spectrum of emotions — some of which Aziraphale had never known existed, and some of which he privately felt there was really no need (and would have wished didn’t exist, except that of course you couldn’t second-guess ineffability). It could be quite disheartening at times.

But then, around the edges, above and below and on either side, and sometimes _right smack dab in the middle_ of the hatred, of the fear, of the grief, of the anger… there was love, and to Aziraphale’s mind, that made it all worth it.

There were so many different kinds of loving, too, sometimes separate, sometimes all mixed up in and with one another like a glorious tie-dye. In a few thousand years, Greek philosophers would label seven different categories of love, but Aziraphale knew that the nuances and flavors and variants numbered infinitely more than seven. He never ceased to find it wonderful.

Yes, love was definitely Aziraphale’s favorite part of Earth — better than food, better than music, possibly even better than books would be once they were invented (though that last was a close call). It could truly be said, perhaps, that Aziraphale loved love.

In the abstract, naturally.

Because while angels can, if they so choose (the vast majority do not), abstractly love a planet, or humankind in general, or even love itself… that is, according to every rulebook, the extent of the ethereal capacity for loving. Specific, targeted love is something that is wholly and uniquely human in nature. As such, angels do not delve beyond the abstract.

It’s simply not done.

~ ~ ~

Unlike most demons, Crowley knew how to be friendly. He’d figured that trick out early on, before there was even a word for it, when he’d realized that the best way to get Eve to pick a fruit wasn’t to hiss or bare his fangs, but simply to start a casual conversation and steer the talk in the direction he wanted it to go. It had been easy then, almost ridiculously easy — and over time, with practice, Crowley got even better at being friendly.

But friendliness and friendship are two extremely different things. Crowley knew that. And however many humans he deceived, however many successful temptations he pulled off, however many commendations he received for the global spread of evil with which he may or may not have had anything to do, he couldn’t help the curiosity. How, he wondered, would friendship feel? What would it be like to have a friend, and to _be_ a friend?

Sometime around 3200 BCE, Crowley decided to experiment. He’d experimented with plenty of other human innovations, after all — sleep, music, alcohol, just to name a few — so why should this one be any different?

This experiment was different, and it took several tries, but eventually it worked.

Crowley chose a young man, a potter in Sumer, and settled nearby. Friends are supposed to be honest with each other, and of course Crowley could not do that, not entirely. But he came as close as possible, and the man seemed to reciprocate. The bond which gradually developed was one which Crowley felt, in spite of his demonic nature, had to approximately resemble that connection which parties in a human friendship felt towards one another. It needed time, effort, and commitment.

He began to feel that friendship was easier to understand that he had thought. He began, even, to forget that the whole thing was only an experiment.

Humans die.

Crowley returned to tempting and thwarting with a vengeance, and resolved not to try that experiment again.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes — usually shortly after consuming a significant amount of some inebriating beverage, or while coming out of immersion in the flow of a scroll or the pages of a book, hovering on the verge between reverie and reality — Aziraphale found himself wishing that ethereal beings could have the capacity for specific, targeted love. Love in the abstract was all very well, certainly, and Aziraphale indulged in it every chance he got. Still, as something of a love connoisseur, Aziraphale knew that there could be no true comparison between the abstract and the specific varieties.

But ethereal nature was what it was. And you couldn’t argue with ineffability.

As a rule, angels are supposed to hold themselves aloof from worldly pleasures. While Aziraphale did not always excel at adhering to this particular category of rules, he was at least wise enough to recognize its value when applied to relationships with humans, for their sake as much as for his own.

So he blessed and he helped and he cared, but he did it all from a metaphorical (and sometimes literal) arm’s length away. He maintained acquaintanceships with humans, sometimes — Mother Shipton, Johann Pachelbel, Oscar Wilde, to name a few — but he avoided becoming too personally invested in anyone. He loved the world, from a safe distance.

He found other ways to ease the yearning, other ways to channel the impulse for love that, had he not known he was an angel, Aziraphale would have thought rather more intense than anything abstract could be.

Aziraphale loved food. He loved music. Scrolls. Books, once they were invented. One day, Aziraphale would love a bookshop.

And when the ache of wishing for _something more_ became too much to bear, he sobered up, rolled up the scroll or closed the book, and went out to spread blessings and goodness and shower the world with abstract, ethereal love.

In a way, it was always something of a relief to be able to fall back on mutual thwarting with the Serpent who was Aziraphale’s demonic counterpart on Earth. A familiar job, a familiar routine, a familiar face, the only face that stuck around consistently over the millennia. It was grounding.

~ ~ ~

It took another couple thousand years, but in spite of his resolution, Crowley did end up repeating the experiment. Not with the intention of experimentation; not intentionally at all, in fact. Nevertheless, from time to time it happened anyway. Interacting with humans was an inevitable occupational hazard in Crowley’s line of work, and his assignments sometimes required getting to know certain humans fairly well. Also, limiting himself exclusively to professional interactions would have been gloomy and intolerably dull.

He never planned on friendships, and if he detected one developing he usually tried to nip it in the bud, or cut and run before it was too late. Too often, though, by the time Crowley realized what was going on it _was_ too late, too late to stop it. It kept happening, as the millennia went by.

Cleopatra. Elisha ben Abuyah. Jane Doe. Leonardo da Vinci. Freddie Mercury.

Humans still die.

In a way, it was always something of a relief to be able to go back to mutual thwarting with the Principality who was Crowley’s angelic counterpart on Earth. A familiar job, a familiar routine, a familiar face, the only face that stuck around consistently over the millennia. It was grounding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to post the next installment in a few days. Thanks for reading — and as always, every single kudos or comment you may see fit to leave will be seen, valued, and greatly appreciated. <3


	2. An Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In some ways, being around Aziraphale reminded Crowley of the Sumerian potter, or Cleopatra, or Elisha. Only, angels don’t die.
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> Spending time around Crowley helped, Aziraphale found, with easing the ache of that everlasting, unfulfilled, unfulfillable longing in his chest.

They first officially came to their decidedly unofficial Arrangement in 1020, although it had undoubtedly been in the making for some centuries prior, at least since Wessex. It was in 1020, however, that the Serpent and the Principality ran into each other in Córdoba, went to feed some ducks, and ended up sitting down to acknowledge the fact that each had been effectively nullifying the other’s work for thousands of years (except for when they inadvertently ended up on the same side. NB: Trojan War).

It seemed, as Crowley observed (not for the first time), like a dreadful waste of both their time and energy, grinding away millennium in and millennium out only to cancel each other out and wind up with neither net gain nor net loss to show for it when reporting back to their superiors. Honestly, what was the point? Surely it would be much more to both of their benefits if they could work out some kind of arrangement that could enable both of them to gain some ground, without encroaching too closely on the other’s territory, and safely take some time off every now and again — a sort of tacit non-interference, in a manner of speaking.

Needless to say, Aziraphale was always on the alert for wiles, poised to thwart. When he thought about it, though, he found he was of much the same mind as Crowley. The proposal the Serpent had been making on and off ever since 537 made sense; really, it was only logical, and Aziraphale was getting tired of trying to deny it. And, the angel had to admit, it _would_ be remarkably refreshing to submit a report to Head Office once in a while that went beyond “thwarted demonic wiles”.

And so, the Arrangement came to be.

~ ~ ~

Crowley would never have acknowledged it, but in the early days of the Arrangement, for all it had been his idea in the first place, there was a part of him that worried that the alteration to what had been the status quo practically since the Beginning would translate to a loss of that one source of familiarity on which he’d come to rely. The old routines, after all, were no longer applicable. Tacit non-interference meant a change to the long-established constancy of mutual thwarting.

As it turned out, however, the worries were unnecessary. The details of the routine changed, yes, but the angel’s face stayed just as familiar, grounding as ever and somewhat less tiresome. They still thwarted each other, periodically — often enough for both Crowley and Aziraphale to be able to report some progress in thwarting, but not too often for them both to be able to report other forms of progress as well.

From there, it followed only naturally that they cover for each other on occasion. As Crowley explained the idea the first time he brought it up (and the second and third and seventh times), if he was going to be out and about doing a piece of infernal business _anyway,_ he might as well take care of a bit of divine ecstasy while he was in the area. At the end of the day, the task would get done no matter who technically did the legwork, so why not be sensible about it and save Aziraphale the time, travel, and trouble? It was simply a matter of mutually beneficial transaction.

And so, the Arrangement developed, and Heaven and Hell’s agents on Earth slipped more or less smoothly into a new and improved routine.  


~ ~ ~

It took several tries on Crowley’s part before Aziraphale accepted the demon’s offer to, figuratively speaking, kill two birds with one stone (a metaphor which Aziraphale found distinctly distasteful, but no one at Babel had consulted him about best idiomatic practices). But once Aziraphale conceded and what was quite possibly the first-ever demonically-performed blessing went off without a hitch, then of course Aziraphale was honor-bound to return the favor. He was surprised at how easy it was to carry out a basic temptation. He tried not to feel too guilty; after all, as Crowley pointed out, one way or another it’d all get done anyway, so they might as well be practical about the division of labor.

And so it went.

Aziraphale would never have acknowledged it, but in the early days of the Arrangement there had been a part of him that worried that the alteration to old routines meant he would lose that one source of familiarity that he’d come to count on. The worries proved unnecessary, however. Between periodic thwarting, periodic lending of hands, and an odd tendency on Crowley’s part to periodically pop up out of nowhere for no apparent reason, the demon’s face stayed just as familiar, grounding as ever and somewhat less tiresome.

~ ~ ~

It was not a conscious decision — if he had let himself think about it consciously, he’d never have dared do it — but as the Arrangement developed, Crowley sauntered vaguely into the habit of trying to spend quality time with Aziraphale.

There was nothing remotely official about this quality time, nothing even so official as the decidedly unofficial Arrangement. They’d simply happen to run into each other, as if by sheer chance; exchange greetings and news and the obligatory pseudo-intimidation; and then head to a restaurant, or a duck pond, or share a bottle of something fermented.

Crowley showed up in Aziraphale’s vicinity as frequently as he could get away with passing off as coincidence, as frequently as he could justify to himself, and as frequently as he could manage without risking annoying the angel _too_ much. As time passed, the frequency of their casual, off-the-record meetings and social activities increased, going from once every century or two to every several decades to somewhat more often even than that.

Sometimes, Crowley worried that he was going to get on Aziraphale’s nerves too badly, or go too far in offending the angel’s moral sensibilities, and mess everything up. But Crowley couldn’t change who he was, and the angel never smote him, or did anything else that was worse than occasionally dropping strong hints to the effect that it was really getting quite late and Aziraphale had work to do. So Crowley kept on coming by.

In some ways, being around Aziraphale reminded Crowley of the Sumerian potter, or Cleopatra, or Elisha. Only, angels don’t die.

The Arrangement wasn’t friendship, of course. Crowley was under no such illusions. He and Aziraphale were not colleagues, but they were no longer precisely enemies either. They were not quite allies, nor accomplices. They were something else, and perhaps there was no name for the _something else_ that they were. But whatever they were, and whatever Crowley might have wished for in his innermost, secret heart of hearts, the fact remained that Crowley was a demon and Aziraphale was an angel. And neither demons nor angels have friends — especially not friends from among their opposite numbers.

The Arrangement wasn’t friendship, but it was certainly pleasant.

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale was wary, to begin with. He was, after all, an angel. And Crowley was, after all, a demon. Principalities are not supposed to cooperate with Serpents, and they are certainly not supposed to trust them. That is a good way to get yourself, at best, discorporated. And besides, it’s not done.

But aside from the occasional practical joke — aggravating but ultimately, the angel had to admit, mostly harmless — this specific demon showed no signs of turning on Aziraphale. As far as the angel could deduce based on their millennia-long acquaintance, Crowley was not really a snake in the grass; he was just a snake, and that wasn’t exactly his fault. After all, one could hardly blame one of God’s creations for being what he was. And, in fact, Aziraphale wasn’t sure he would have changed Crowley in any way, even if it had been possible.

Notwithstanding what angels were _supposed_ to do, Aziraphale found that he was coming to trust the demon. He made no more than a halfhearted attempt to stop himself. Sometimes, Aziraphale worried that his fussiness or exaggerated moral sensibilities would bore Crowley, or get on the demon’s nerves _too_ much, and mess everything up. But the demon kept coming by.

Spending time around Crowley helped, Aziraphale found, with easing the ache of that everlasting, unfulfilled, unfulfillable longing in his chest. If he had paused to think about it, it might have occurred to him that he was becoming personally invested.

The Arrangement wasn’t love, of course. Aziraphale was under no such illusions. If angels were incapable of loving in any way but the abstract, then demons were incapable of loving in any way at all. Whatever Aziraphale might have wished for in his innermost, secret heart of hearts, ethereal and occult natures were what they were. And you couldn’t argue with ineffability.

The Arrangement wasn’t love, but it was certainly pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for our next episode of ineffable pining, coming soon!


	3. Revelations and Evolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the fourteenth century, Crowley couldn’t ignore the nagging suspicion any longer, and he couldn’t shake it off. And as usual, by the time he recognized what was going on it was too late to stop, too late to nip it in the bud, too late to cut and run with any degree of efficacy.  
>  Implausible though it seemed, Crowley was fairly sure that at some point he and Aziraphale had become friends.
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> The wave of secondhand sentiment blasted Aziraphale in the heart with the sudden, shocking, certain revelation: _Crowley loves me._  
>  And then, close on the tail of that first revelation, there came a second. If, as was clearly the case, there could be an exception to the rules regarding demons’ capacity for love (or lack thereof)… then maybe, just maybe, some of the other rules regarding supernatural beings and capacity for love might have exceptions as well.

Looking back, Crowley didn’t know when he first began to suspect. Like the concept of friendship itself had done when the world was still new, the concept’s specific manifestation simply slipped into being, put down roots, and grew and grew and _grew_ until it could not or would not be weeded out.

His only excuse for not recognizing it for what it was much, much sooner was that it had crept up on him so _slowly_ , and so utterly unexpectedly, and so absolutely unlooked for, that he had never thought to entertain even the possibility of its presence. Taking root and growing over hundreds of years — thousands, if he was really splitting hairs. This was not something that had happened to Crowley before, nor was it something he’d seen happen to anyone else, nor even heard of happening to anyone ever.

There was, of course, an obvious reason for this gap in Crowley’s experience of the world. Demons and angels, according to every rulebook, do not have friends. And humans, innovators though they are, only live for a few years; a few decades; at most, a century or so. Then they die. They never have a chance at building the sort of slow, strong, solid, long-term friendship that is forged over millennia of mixed rivalry and collaboration. Human lifespans are simply too short for relationships of such span, scale, and scope to even begin development, let alone approach fruition.

But angels don’t die, and nor do demons.

By the fourteenth century, Crowley couldn’t ignore the nagging suspicion any longer, and he couldn’t shake it off. And as usual, by the time he recognized what was going on it was too late to stop, too late to nip it in the bud, too late to cut and run with any degree of efficacy.

Implausible though it seemed, Crowley was fairly sure that at some point he and Aziraphale had become friends.

His first thought, on the otherwise normal day when the truth about the reason he was missing Aziraphale so badly hit him like a ton of bricks, was, _Bloody Hell-or-Heaven-or-whatever, this is all my fault, shit, poor angel._

It was horrifying. The Arrangement had originally been Crowley’s idea, yes, but he had never intended it as anything other than a commonsensical way for two isolated agents to handle an awkward set of working conditions. He had certainly never intended to drag Aziraphale — not to mention himself — into a _friendship_ , of all things. Bless it (and Crowley didn’t even know whether he was using the phrase in a human or a demonic sense).

He wondered whether Aziraphale was aware of what the demon had gotten him into — or, perhaps, what they both had gotten themselves into. He wondered, too, whether the friendship was mutual. He didn’t know whether he hoped it was or he hoped it wasn’t.

If Crowley had kept houseplants back in those days, he would have screamed at them. As it was, he swore repeatedly, punched the wall (the poor house was never the same afterwards), drank himself into a stupor, and then spent the next few decades steadfastly denying the strong desire to visit the angel. He was damned if he was going to give in and let this massive mistake, with its massive potential to hurt both him and (far more concerningly) Aziraphale, keep going.

But it was just as Crowley had feared: too late to nip in the bud something that was already in full uninvited bloom, too late for cutting and running to have any impact other than that of cementing the certainty of just how powerfully, beautifully, and _dangerously_ he missed being around Aziraphale. And since angels (thank anyone willing to be thanked) do not die — and nor do demons — Crowley saw no way out of his mess.

He might have given in, or he might have continued trying hopelessly to stamp it out, but then the choice was taken out of his hands. For almost the first time ever, _Aziraphale_ was the one who popped up out of nowhere for nor apparent reason, greeting Crowley with surprise that the demon was almost (but not entirely) sure was feigned, and extending a carefully casual invitation to a masquerade ball.

Crowley did enjoy masquerade balls (mostly because humans behaved in frankly hilarious ways at such events — plus, a masquerade was prime ground for sowing discord, and all that). It was Aziraphale’s expressive eyes that really did it, though: wide, slightly worried, hopeful, almost pleading. And if Crowley had still held out any slim hope that his effort to squelch the feelings of friendship had been even remotely effective, that hope was extinguished the moment he met those eyes.

He didn't have the heart to say no to the eyes. Nor, now he came right down to it, did he have the heart to face the prospect of untold future centuries without the presence of an Arrangement and an angel to bicker with.

It was just so _, so_ grounding to see Aziraphale again.

Crowley was, after all, already damned. So he went to the masquerade, and the pair slipped more or less smoothly back into routine, unchanged except for Crowley’s newfound understanding regarding their relationship. He didn’t say anything about this understanding. He didn’t want to risk frightening Aziraphale off and disrupting what they had.

Probably he should have stayed upset, or kept trying to end the friendship, before the two of them became even more hopelessly enmired than they already were. But then, Crowley was a demon; he did not do things he _should_ do. Once that initial, decades-long rush of panic had given way, he couldn’t quite bring himself to continue being upset about the revelation. It was, he thought later, the only good thing that had happened during the fourteenth century.

~ ~ ~

Although there are exceptions to every rule, love does not generally spring into existence fully formed out of the blue. No, it grows and evolves, like the plot of a well-written descriptive novel of the sort publishers are wont to reject out of hand: slow and steady and slippery.

Given that love grows and evolves, as opposed to springing into existence fully formed out of the blue, it should definitely not have caught Aziraphale by so much surprise. His only excuse for not recognizing it for what it was much, much sooner was that it had crept up on him so _slowly_ , and that finding love in that particular quarter was so utterly unexpected, so absolutely unlooked for, that he had never thought to entertain even the possibility of its presence.

Not until Aziraphale realized it had been decades since he’d last seen Crowley, and although their respective professional activities let the angel know that the demon was okay, Aziraphale found himself missing Crowley so very much that he decided to try the coincidental-meeting strategy himself.

The strategy worked.

And, perhaps because they’d been apart for decades, perhaps because Aziraphale was in a particularly emotionally receptive frame of mind, perhaps for some other reason altogether, the wave of secondhand sentiment blasted Aziraphale in the heart with the sudden, shocking, certain revelation: _Crowley loves me._

Crowley, a demon, loved Aziraphale, an angel. Impossible, yet irrefutable. Unthinkable, yet unmistakable. Powerful, beautiful, dangerous.

It was indeed a revelation. Aziraphale was lucky it was a masquerade ball to which he’d gotten them miraculously admitted, because he could never have managed to keep his face under control. As it was, he was barely able to hold himself together long enough for the masquerade to wind to an end and the two of them to head their separate ways, the potent aura of love, love, _love_ lingering in Aziraphale’s senses for some minutes more.

Aziraphale made it to the lodging house where he was currently in residence, collapsed on the bed he’d never slept in, and stared unseeingly at the ceiling for several days straight. Not even his latest literary find (Aziraphale was really going to have to find some better way of storing all those books; his collection was simply getting too large to lug about everywhere he went, but he wasn’t willing to part with any of the beloved tomes) was enough to distract him from the overwhelming realization and the frantic, horrified, horrifying mantra replaying again and again in the angel’s head. _He loves me, this is all my fault, oh dear oh dear oh dear, poor Crowley._

And then, close on the tail of that first revelation, there came a second. If, as was clearly the case, there could be an exception to the rules regarding demons’ capacity for love (or lack thereof)… then maybe, just maybe, some of the other rules regarding supernatural beings and capacity for love might have exceptions as well.

It is often, generally speaking, easier to recognize emotions in others than in oneself. This is especially true when one is an angel. Aziraphale knew what love felt like from the outside, and, implausible though it seemed, there was no doubt about the nature of the emotion he sensed emanating from Crowley. Aziraphale had no idea, however, what specific, targeted love felt like from the _inside_. A quiet part of him whispered the question of whether he would be able to tell if he loved Crowley in return. An even quieter part of him rather suspected, and rather feared, that he might already do so.

The thing about revelations (as anyone who has read the official Revelation knows all too well) is that, after it has occurred, there is no going back. One cannot _unknow_ something, when once it has been known.

In a way, Aziraphale wished he could. Because as much as he loved love, and as much as he might have yearned for it in theory, in practice it was absolutely terrifying. And if an Arrangement between hereditary enemies was something best kept under the radar, _love_ between said hereditary enemies was simply beyond the pale.

A good angel does not break rules, and a good angel is not selfish. Aziraphale _knew_ that the proper course of action, both as a representative of Heaven and as someone who cared deeply for Crowley’s wellbeing, would be to break off their social relationship, perhaps even break off the Arrangement completely. Let Crowley be, let them both get over their feelings alone. Follow the rules. Most importantly, avoid surrendering to the selfish instinct to hold on to the connection that he and Crowley had evidently, against all reason, forged over the millennia. Forget it all.

Aziraphale spent the next couple decades doing, or trying to do, exactly that. He had no success in getting over the feelings that he was still only beginning to recognize in himself, and even less success at forgetting. But he did let Crowley be.

And then they ran into each other again, in Constantinople. Aziraphale thought it might have been truly by chance this time, although he could never tell for certain; in any case, it didn’t really matter. The sense of love was undiminished in its potency, but it was the demon’s palpable misery that really did it. Aziraphale couldn’t claim to have been enjoying the century himself, but Crowley was clearly having a much harder time of it. The unhappiness was abject and obvious, and it hurt Aziraphale just to see.

He couldn’t bear to leave Crowley to weather the rest of the fourteenth century alone. Nor, now he came right down to it, could he bear the prospect of untold future centuries without the presence of an Arrangement and a demon to bicker with.

It was just so _, so_ grounding to see Crowley again.

Despite his best efforts, Aziraphale was not a good angel. So he talked to Crowley, and the pair slipped more or less smoothly back into routine, unchanged except for Aziraphale’s newfound understanding regarding their relationship. He didn’t say anything about this understanding. He didn’t want to risk frightening Crowley off and disrupting what they had.

He tried not to pay too much attention to the love that all but blazed from Crowley whenever they met. Having spent thousands of years among humans, joyously sensing their love with never a qualm (save that of loneliness), Aziraphale wasn’t sure what made this case feel so very different. But now — for reasons he couldn’t articulate even, or especially, to himself — it felt somehow like an invasion of privacy. Aziraphale couldn’t help sensing the love, but he could avert his metaphysical eyes, avoid looking too closely, and politely pretend he hadn’t noticed anything.

But he had.

~ ~ ~

Once Crowley came to the realization that he and Aziraphale were friends, he couldn’t unrealize it. Worse, he kept catching himself _thinking_ about it. No matter how much Crowley liked to _believe_ they were friends, that didn’t mean he wanted to _think_ about it. Certain subjects were best kept locked away in that safe, secret, unutterable corner of the mind. And besides, when Crowley started thinking about things, he usually ended up _over_ thinking things. That was just no fun, so he tried (and, too often, failed) to avoid doing it.

He and Aziraphale continued in what was to all appearances their usual routine: periodic thwarting, periodic hand-lending, periodic socializing. For the most part, and certainly according to any objective means of assessment, nothing had changed about the Arrangement. Still, in the decades that followed the fourteenth century, Crowley felt that some… something… in their relationship was qualitatively, utterly unquantifiably, different.

Sometimes, he was convinced that Aziraphale knew that they were friends, and was acting accordingly. Other times, Crowley was equally convinced that it was all in his own imagination.

Neither of them ever spoke the word “friendship,” of course. But then, they seldom spoke the word “Arrangement” either — and there was no doubt that both of them knew about _that_. Some sentiments are safest left unspoken, that was all.

Despite his better judgment, despite his continued background guilt over having gotten the angel into this mess, Crowley treasured the knowledge of their friendship, perhaps more than he’d treasured anything since the Fall.

~ ~ ~

Despite his better judgment, despite his continued background guilt over having gotten the demon into this mess, Aziraphale treasured the knowledge of their love, perhaps more than he’d treasured anything since Creation.

He wished Crowley could sense love, too; in a way, that would have made things so much easier. (Although it would also have been dreadfully embarrassing, as the demon would most likely have noticed Aziraphale’s love long before Aziraphale noticed it himself.) Because Aziraphale simply could not verbalize his own, increasingly non-abstract, feelings. He could hardly bring himself even to say “Arrangement” — and “love” was a word that was far, far more perilous than “Arrangement”.

Some sentiments are safest left unspoken. So instead, the angel tried to project his own reciprocation… in look or tone, if not in word.

Sometimes, Aziraphale was convinced that Crowley knew the angel loved him — abstractly, perhaps even more than abstractly — and was acting accordingly. Other times, Aziraphale was equally convinced that it was all in his own imagination.

He hoped the demon knew, but he couldn’t be sure.

~ ~ ~

By the end of the sixteenth century, Crowley was practically sure. There was simply no other explanation for that particular look in Aziraphale’s eyes, or for that particular undertone to his voice. They were friends. The angel _had_ to know.

In 1601, they stood in the Globe Theater, watching a newly written and (in Crowley’s humble opinion — that was to say, his prideful opinion, humility being a virtue) totally depressing play, and Crowley listened as Aziraphale assured Shakespeare that he and Crowley had never met before, they didn’t know each other, and they certainly weren’t friends.

Crowley didn’t argue, because who was he to argue? He smirked, because it was a habit. He made sarcastic comments, because he enjoyed Aziraphale’s reactions. He cheated on a coin toss, because he really didn’t feel like going to Edinburgh. He promised a miracle to ensure Hamlet’s success, because it made the ridiculous angel smile.

 _Oh, we’re not friends_. Crowley knew it was Aziraphale’s usual paranoia, he knew the angel was just talking the talk for the sake of any prying eyes from Above or Below, and he knew better than to take any of the comments personally. Crowley knew all the reasons. Still, knowledge (as no one knows better than the Serpent of Eden) doesn’t preclude pain. In this instance, knowledge did not preclude the sting of that quick, instinctive disavowal of a millennia-long association.

But on the other hand, it occurred to Crowley, the angel had denied their friendship in the same breath that he’d denied their having previously met. The latter being a matter of obvious and objective fact, perhaps that was actually a sign that the angel knew, and accepted, and obliquely acknowledged, that the former was just as factual. Perhaps…

… And there Crowley went again, overthinking as usual. He sighed, shook himself off, worked his little miracle on behalf of Hamlet, relished the look in Aziraphale’s eyes, and wondered if he could find a way to spin this one into a report for Head Office. It was, after all, a demonic piece of work bound to darken the soul of many a high school student for eons to come.

~ ~ ~

In 1793, in the Bastille, Aziraphale came very close to saying, “Crowley, dear, I do believe that I love you, in a way that I think may not be very abstract at all. I am not at all sure what to do about this fact, if it is true, but I would just like to make sure that you know that I care about you very much.”

But the angel’s attempt to thank the demon had already been rebuffed, in no uncertain terms. Of course Aziraphale knew all the reasons for the rebuff, and of course he knew it was nothing personal — but it was still an unmistakable indication that Crowley did not want to have a personal conversation. And, especially after being saved from what would have been an extremely inconvenient and embarrassing discorporation (followed, far more bloodcurdling, by a significant amount of paperwork), the least the angel could do was respect the demon’s boundaries.

So instead, Aziraphale said, “What would you say to some crêpes?”

~ ~ ~

Crowley slept through most of the nineteenth century, but he woke up in 1832 to go to the lavatory, and he woke up again in 1860 to deal with some rare and unwelcome attention from his superiors. He managed to get them off his back by 1861, and in the meantime to avoid encountering Aziraphale while being watched, but there were a couple of very close calls. And Crowley’s carefully-cultivated nonchalance, the confidence he feigned even to himself that he could keep putting one over on Hell forever and they’d never get wind, was badly shaken.

For the first time in a long time, Crowley couldn’t manage to steer his thoughts away from the notion of what would happen to him if either Head Office ever found out about the Arrangement. Far more horrific, his thoughts then strayed towards the notion of what would happen to _Aziraphale_ if either Head Office ever found out.

It was not an acceptable notion. Crowley could not run the risk of letting it happen. He needed insurance.

It took him another year to work up the courage to bring the question to Aziraphale, but eventually, in St. James Park, he did it. _We’re friends_ , Crowley assured himself. _Friends help each other. And this is something I need help with._

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale stared at the scrap of paper in his hand. He blinked, stared at it again. The two handwritten words on the paper remained the same.

Holy water.

Aziraphale tried to say, “Crowley, I think I may love you. In any case, I know that I care about too much to be able to give you something that could destroy you. I am horrified and terrified by the implications of this request that you are making of me. What is going on, Crowley? Are you okay?”

It came out as, “Do you know what trouble I’d be in if they knew I’d been fraternizing?”

~ ~ ~

_Fraternizing._

_I don’t need you._

_The feeling is mutual._

_Obviously._

Unassured and uninsured, Crowley went back to sleep for the rest of the nineteenth century.

~ ~ ~

The next 79 years were the most lonely, worried, unhappy years that Aziraphale had experienced since at least the fourteenth century.

~ ~ ~

As the Serpent had first noted all those millennia ago, friendship can lead humans to engage in irrational, inexplicable, and occasionally perilous behaviors. Apparently, it has the same effect on demons.

That was how Crowley came to find himself hobbling over consecrated ground to rescue an angel in distress, dropping a bomb on a bunch of halfwitted Nazi spies, and putting in an extra bit of demonic intervention to save a satchel full of stuffy old prophecy books. A rejection, an argument, 79 years of lonely, worried, unhappy silence — when push came to shove, Crowley discovered, none of that made any difference whatsoever.

It was no accident when Crowley said, “My friend and I.”

~ ~ ~

When a collection of signed, first-edition prophecy books survived a direct bomb landing unscathed, any last remnants of doubt that might have lingered in Aziraphale's mind completely evaporated. Whatever the rules said, ethereal beings, or at least one particular ethereal being, did have the capacity for specific, targeted varieties of love. He could no longer ignore it.

79 years of silence, yet when push came to shove, none of it made any difference whatsoever. The angel clutched the books, and his throat worked, and he gazed at the demon offering a lift. Aziraphale really would have said it this time, consequences notwithstanding, with no qualms and no questions and no qualifiers. _I love you, Crowley._

He really would have said it, but his voice failed him, so he said it with his eyes instead.

~ ~ ~

In 1967, Crowley sat in the Bentley, running his hands over the cap of a thermos he hoped he would never need to unscrew, and three thoughts replayed in his head, over and over and over.

_The water._

_A picnic, or dining at the Ritz._

_Too fast._

Crowley started the Bentley up and drove away. He could go as slow and wait as long as his angel needed.

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale watched the Bentley containing his demon drive around the corner, and three thoughts replayed in his head, over and over and over.

_The water._

_A picnic, or dining at the Ritz._

_Too fast._

Aziraphale returned to the bookshop, heart aching with the spoken and the unspoken alike.

~ ~ ~

For the next few decades, things proceeded more or less smoothly. Both demon and angel leaned into the comfortable, routine, tacit grounding of the Arrangement and of each other’s presence. Crowley built a motorway in the shape of the dread sigil _Odegra_. Aziraphale tried not to sell books. They did some mild mutual thwarting. They covered for each other. They fed the ducks.

Then Crowley delivered a baby, and the world began its final countdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Armageddon! I tentatively intend to have that chapter edited and posted by early next week.
> 
> Thanks to anyone who's read thus far. <3


	4. An Armageddon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six thousand years is a bit much to flash before anyone's eyes in the instant that passes between stepping into a circle and being discorporated. Aziraphale’s life review, therefore, was limited to a mere handful of highlights (and a few lowlights).  
>  If he hadn’t been distracted, Aziraphale would have observed that almost every highlighted memory flashing before his eyes had one thing in common.
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> Crowley screamed, cursing out Above and Below and ineffability and anyone who was listening and anyone who wasn’t.  
>  The screaming didn’t help, nor did the drinking that followed. There was only one thing that could have helped, and that thing — that person, that being, that _friend_ — was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, folks, this will be something of a rough ride. We all know what's coming.
> 
> (Also, I should note that, while I try to integrate both book and TV canon whenever possible and this strategy generally works fairly well, there are certain moments where a choice must be made. If you're a miniseries fan and the bit at the airfield strikes you as not-quite-right, that's because I used the book version of the scene. The bandstand and some other parts, on the other hand, are straight out of the show.)

_Tempora mutantur,_ as Cicero didn’t say. (Misattribution had started out as one of Crowley’s more peculiar ideas, but to his delight and Aziraphale’s dismay, humanity took it and ran with it.) Times change, and we with time. That saying is true of the end times as well.

~ ~ ~

Co-godparenting was a new kind of Arrangement, albeit not a completely unpleasant one. Raising any child takes patience and persistence, and the ability and willingness to adapt to routines that are both new and constantly changing. Having a partner in the undertaking is frequently helpful.

In the early years, Warlock Dowling was certainly enough of a handful for both Crowley (or Nanny Ashtoreth, or Mr. Harrison, as the case may have been at any given moment) and Aziraphale (or Brother Francis, or Mr. Cortese) to readily believe he was the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. Angel and demon were both exceedingly thankful that they did not have to raise an Antichrist alone, and neither would have wanted any other partner.

As the child aged, and continued to show little to no sign of warping the world to his own desires and shaping it in his image and being a powerhouse of raw force, the occult and ethereal influences in his life would become increasingly concerned. Ultimately, a Hellhound would fail to appear at an eleventh birthday party, and Heaven and Hell’s respective representatives would realize there must have been a terrible muddle somewhere along the line. From there, the situation would only continue to deteriorate.

In the meantime, however, neither would have wanted any other partner, in godparenting or in saving the world or in anything else.

~ ~ ~

It was ironic that, after six thousand years, an Arrangement, a multitude of near-discorporation experiences, and a stint of child-rearing, the first time Crowley actually heard Aziraphale utter the words “We’re friends” was over the phone, with the angel evidently so distracted that he could barely spare enough attention to momentarily acknowledge Crowley’s existence. _That_ had to be the context in which Aziraphale said the words Crowley had been wishing to hear for centuries. The irony stung.

… Or maybe there was nothing ironic about it at all, because if Aziraphale had been any less preoccupied, he would probably never have let the words slip.

Crowley returned the phone to its base in a motion that was halfway between a slam and a caress. _Well_ , he thought, feeling far more alone than he had any right to feel, _that was another thing_.

~ ~ ~

They met at the third alternative rendezvous, and words were spoken, words that should not have been spoken, words that hurt the listener, words that hurt the speaker even more. Cruel words, false words, ugly words, heartbreaking words, heartbroken words.

There was a moment — one long, clear, crystalline, compelling, excruciating moment — when Aziraphale heard the words “We can go off together,” and thought it was true. They could really do it. They could go. They could…

Then sense, or something that claimed to be sense, reasserted itself, and Aziraphale rejected the temptation, while one desperate piece of his consciousness watched in horror and failed to stop the words coming out of his mouth.

_Friends? We’re not friends._

_I don’t even like you._

_It’s over._

With every word that either of them spoke, the guilt and agony and aloneness in Aziraphale’s heart twisted deeper.

The feeling was mutual. The feelings between them always had been.

~ ~ ~

On at least three levels, Crowley’s world was ending. The apocalypse was beginning; Hell was out to get him personally; and then, and most crushingly of all, Aziraphale repudiated him, denied that they had any sort of relationship, and refused to flee to Alpha Centauri. By this point in doomsday, Crowley didn’t see how things could possibly get worse.

As usually happens, things got worse.

There was a fire in Soho, and Crowley’s world ended on a new level.

~ ~ ~

There is a popular belief that, in the instant just before a human dies, their life flashes before their eyes. Aziraphale had witnessed Azrael at work on enough occasions to know that this is, sometimes, to some extent, true. (At other times, the human doing the dying is asleep, or unaware, or too preoccupied with their family or their hair or spiritual concerns to have any attention to spare for something that is about to be over and done with anyway.)

Six thousand years is a bit much to flash before anyone's eyes in the instant that passes between stepping into a circle and being discorporated. Aziraphale’s life review, therefore, was limited to a mere handful of highlights (and a few lowlights). Eden. The Ark. Rome. Camelot. A masquerade. The Globe. Crêpes. A church. Ducks. The Ritz. A bandstand.

If he hadn’t been distracted by discorporating, Aziraphale would have observed that almost every highlighted memory flashing before his eyes had one thing in common. (Almost. Crowley hadn’t been present on the day Aziraphale found out that the printing press had been invented.)

Also in the instant of discorporation, several thoughts went through the part of Aziraphale’s mind that wasn’t busy watching highlights from his life flash by. One of the thoughts, eloquent and concise, was, _Oh, fuck_. Another was, _Dear me, now that stupid man is going to think he exorcised me, how mortifying._ Another was, _Nooo, discorporation paperwork is the worst. What will Gabriel say?_ Another was, _But the Antichrist!_

The most painful thought of all was, _I lied, and I never said I love him_.

~ ~ ~

Crowley screamed, cursing out Above and Below and ineffability and anyone who was listening and anyone who wasn’t. The scream was the scream of a being whose last corner of world has just gone up in flames (along with a large selection of priceless literary works, some vintage liquor, and an angel’s corporation).

_Somebody killed my best friend! Bastards, all of you!_

The screaming didn’t help, nor did the drinking that followed. There was only one thing that could have helped, and that thing — that person, that being, that _friend_ — was gone. It was the Sumerian potter all over again, it was Cleopatra, it was Elisha, it was Jane, it was Leonardo, it was Freddie… except it was all of them at the same time, multiplied by six thousand, and it was _Aziraphale_.

~ ~ ~

At the airfield, Aziraphale said, “I'd just like to say, if we don't get out of this, that I'll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you." He was really saying, _I love you very much_.

Crowley said, “Just remember I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.” He was really saying, _You’re my best friend_.

Really, they were saying the exact same thing. They always had been.

Angel and demon joined hands, and went together to face the end of the world, and to die.

~ ~ ~

The world didn’t end.

They chose their faces wisely, and they didn’t die.

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact: The story almost ended here, but after all that sadness I decided some softness/comfort was necessary.  
> Hence, stay tuned for the fifth and final chapter, which will be titled "A Hug" for a reason. <3


	5. A Hug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crowley. Er. Would you… er, would you like a hug?”  
> “Yeah. Hug. Sounds nice. I’d like that. Yeah. Ngh, gah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is at last, as promised in the tags — the long-overdue, angst-free, ultra-awkward embrace!

They were in the bookshop back room, together. Aziraphale had been taking inventory of his new, Adam-improved book collection, while Crowley lounged on the sofa and simply relished the awareness that he was okay, and Aziraphale was okay, and the world was okay, and the bookshop was okay, and — for what felt like the first time since the Fall — _life was okay_. Now Aziraphale was taking a break involving tea and biscuits, while Crowley continued to lounge.

They exchanged a few words every several minutes, about nothing at all consequential. Mostly, they just sat there in content, companionable silence.

Aziraphale finished his tea, laid the cup aside, and settled back in his chair, eyes resting, probably without realizing it, on Crowley. Crowley continued to lounge, casually and not-quite-undeliberately shifting position until there was a bare space on the sofa beside him — a space just large enough to fit a second human-shaped corporation, should the owner of said human-shaped corporation desire to sit down — and told himself sharply not to feel so disappointed when the space remained stubbornly unoccupied. It was an absurd thought anyway, and there was no rhyme nor reason to even entertaining the notion.

He half-closed his eyes, and leaned back on the sofa, breathing in the musty air of the back room of a bookshop that was okay, in a world that was also okay, and that held a demon and an angel who were also okay.

~ ~ ~

Aziraphale tried not to look at the bare space that had appeared on the sofa beside Crowley, and told himself sternly to stop thinking about the fact that the space on the sofa was just large enough to fit Aziraphale’s corporation, should Aziraphale have tried to sit down there.

It was an absurd thought anyway, and there was no rhyme nor reason to even entertaining the notion. The sofa was currently in use — in use by Crowley, no less, a fact which Aziraphale was very pleased about. And just because the demon had shifted position and, in so doing, happened to open up an empty space on the sofa, did not mean that was an invitation for an angel to come _take_ that space. It would be terribly rude. It would be presumptuous. It would be intrusive. It would be inappropriate.

Aziraphale determinedly steered his thoughts away from the space on the sofa. Unfortunately, this redirection only had the effect of refocusing the angel’s thoughts on Crowley himself, which was not much of an improvement.

The demon’s eyes were slitted half shut, just a glint of yellow visible beneath the lids. He looked peaceful, relaxed, as happy as Aziraphale had ever seen him. Still, something about Crowley’s posture, and the space on the couch, and the way the demon’s eyes flickered briefly up towards Aziraphale and then away again, and the ever-present glow of affection in the air, put ideas into the angel’s head. One idea was particularly persistent.

The idea was absolutely absurd. It was probably rude and inappropriate as well. And Aziraphale would have to tread very carefully if he were to avoid being presumptuous or intrusive.

Aziraphale would never dream of such a thing. Or, well, even if he did dream of it, he’d never actually say it, let alone _do_ it.

Then again, recently Aziraphale had taken to saying and doing any number of things that he would never have dreamed of saying or doing.

~ ~ ~

“Crowley. Er. Would you… er, would you like a hug?”

Crowley’s eyes flew all the way open so he could properly gape at Aziraphale. His first thought was, _How the Heaven did the bastard read my mind?_ Next, he thought, _Oh my everything yes, I would very, very, very much like a hug from you, Aziraphale_. Then, he thought, _Wait, no, I don’t want you to hug me for the first time ever just because_ I _want it. That would spoil it, and besides, I don’t want you to go to the trouble for me. No, no hug. Ngh, gah._

He opened his mouth to verbalize a variatiation on the last thought (preferably minus the _ngh, gah,_ though it probably would have snuck in anyway). Then, Crowley read the unspoken message in Aziraphale’s eyes — wide, slightly worried, hopeful, almost pleading, expressive as ever — and the words died in his throat. The eyes said, plain as anything, _I would very much like a hug, but I don’t dare to ask for one for myself, so I am offering one instead. Crowley, would you like a hug?_

Well. That put a different spin on things. And Crowley had, after all, never had the heart to say no to those eyes.

Crowley took a deep breath, shivered slightly, and opened his mouth to speak, only to find that his voice had still deserted him. He saw Aziraphale’s face begin to fall, the angel breaking their gaze and opening his mouth to say something that would without doubt be anxious and apologetic and self-deprecating and something or other that Crowley couldn’t stand.

So the demon took another breath and regained enough voice to croak, “Yeah. Hug. Sounds nice. I’d like that. Yeah. Ngh, gah.”

~ ~ ~

There was an awkward moment when Crowley started to get off the sofa and walk over to Aziraphale at the same time that Aziraphale started to get out of his chair and walk over to Crowley. There was another awkward moment when Aziraphale accidentally stepped on Crowley’s toes, and Crowley accidentally kneed Aziraphale in the shin. There was another awkward moment when they each tried to put their arms in the same place, and ended up slightly tangled. There were more awkward moments.

Eventually they found a position that worked, halfway between couch and chair, tips of their toes just barely touching, each right arm wrapped around the other’s shoulder while each left arm encircled the other’s waist, Aziraphale’s face resting in Crowley’s chest and Crowley’s chin resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. It was all very awkward. It was also very comfortable.

They stayed that way for quite some time.

The hug was awkward. It was unsure. It was new, and strange, and pleasant, and unfamiliar, although with practice it would become as familiar as any other aspect of the new and improved Arrangement that they would eventually be ready to officially label a partnership. The hug was soft, from Crowley’s perspective, and bony, from Aziraphale’s. It was warm. It was remarkable. It was grounding. It was wonderful.

The hug said things that, at some point later on, they would both try to put into words, each in their own way. Later still, they would manage the words, and many other words too. With time, they would say the words again and again and again.

In the meanwhile, the hug said, _We love each other, in ways that are not even remotely abstract_. It said, _We’re friends_.

~ ~ ~

Friendship is a human innovation. So, too, is non-abstract love. Both these concepts and capacities are found in neither Heaven nor Hell, practiced by neither demons nor angels, and certainly not towards one another. It is unheard of. It is simply not done.

Then again, stopping Armageddon is also not heard of, and surviving attempted execution is also not done. After the events of the previous Saturday, there could be little doubt where Crowley and Aziraphale stood when it came to humanity versus Above and Below.

As to that, cars are also human innovations, and so are bookshops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And that's a wrap! (Side note: I was originally thinking of writing a chapter/scene in which the pair actually manage to verbalize things [!!! *gasp*], and although that didn't end up happening, the idea may yet make its way into the world as a separate story — so if you'd like to be notified in the event that happens, feel free to subscribe.)
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for your time in reading this, and I hope that you enjoyed! If you're considering commenting, please do; every note makes my day anew. :)


End file.
